


My Grave; My Heart

by fouryearslaterdrabbles (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, I butchered Ancient Greek lore, Immortality, M/M, Old Gods, Pining, but this is cute so, i know i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslaterdrabbles
Summary: Patroclus sits by Achilles grave for three millennia. He never loses his faith.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 99





	My Grave; My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am absolutely in love with Song of Achilles and couldn't help but contribute to the fandom. There is more of this is you want to see (some actual Patrochilles) it just has to be properly written; I've only got the bare-bones of it so far.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy :)

The grave was dilapidated, the words long since scrubbed off, leaving only the faint imprint of _something_ on the surface. Most of the stone had crumbled, leaving it a faint triangular shape rather than its original square. Yet something powerful still emanated from its source and Thetis knew it was still the anger of a beloved.

“You have not yet lost hope.”

“Every year, I feel I am closer to persuading you,” Patroclus said naively. He had no form, barely even a presence, but she could still feel his glare. She did not care. She cared little for anything, especially these days.

“You do not deserve him.”

“So you always say.”

It was a routine now, two immortals (one real, one lingering) craving the familiarity of a painful conversation, the ability to feel in an otherwise vapid world. Especially when one of them was grounded, stuck in the same earth for around three millennia, watching the world rise and fall around him.

“Will you leave me with my son?”

“You know as well as I do that I cannot move.”

“Shame. I wished to speak to him this year.”

“You spoke to him, what was it, about a century ago?”

“Yes, those were desperate times.”

“Oh god, the _fashion_.”

“There was a lot more wrong with it than the fashion.”

“The Turkish have never looked worse.”

Thetis thought the outfits were rather beautiful but wouldn’t say it aloud. Patroclus was impossible to argue with; he had turned as stubborn as her son over the years, stuck in his old opinions. He reminisced relentlessly about when he was young, unable to see that the life of an immortal was a life of change and the only way to survive was to move with it.

“So, how’s being a god, what with them being half-dead and all.”

“Don’t be facetious.”

“Only telling the truth.”

“Age has made you impossible.”

“That is what it tends to do.”

Thetis wished she was not like this with him. It almost felt like camaraderie. The shadow and the abandoned, stuck in this forgotten part of a land that has long since changed its name. Thetis, one of the last of the gods to hold _any_ power, one of the few that were even left alive. They lived human lives now, masquerading their way through life until they had to move again, like godforsaken vampires.

Who was it that left? She forgot so many of their names now, they’d changed them so many times. Even she did not go by Thetis anymore, only Patroclus held onto her old name, like he held onto everything else. She was Alice and she’d been living in Wales for ten years now. She liked it; it was wet.

So yes, there was…Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, Zeus, Poseidon. A few others, she was sure, but could not remember. No longer living off sacrifices but their own hand, slaves to the mortals they’d once ruled over. Thetis was only around by luck. Her ties to the mortals had made her live among humans far longer than the rest of the gods; she lacked their hubris, she’d been able to integrate quickly. The rest of her kind either died in their stubborn morality or were hunted for sport before the common era.

Many gods died from their own hubris, sitting on their thrones in Mount Olympus, waiting for sacrifices that never came, slowly starving. Only the most powerful and the most clever survived. Ones that either could not wither or were intelligent enough to suck it up and go be mortal.

It left barely 20 of them, overall.

“You still seeing Poseidon?”

“Who told you that?”

“Poseidon.”

“I did not know Poseidon knew of your existence.”

“Ah, Hades told him.” Oh yes, Hades, the only one of them still living well. Sacrifices didn’t need to be made in the Underworld, they happened automatically when people, well, died. He was still a god. The only one. Hades, an all powerful god, what a mess.

“Why would he do that?”

“Boredom, I’d expect. He seems to find pleasure in the fact that I can’t make it to him.”

“I don’t see why. Each body only makes him more powerful.”

“He has a strange sense of humour. As do most gods,” he said pointedly. She could imagine his face, still 20-something and young, stubborn and set, almost like a child’s. Whatever she’d once been able to say about his youth was long gone now.

“So now other gods visit you?”

“Yeah. They like to know that someone still cares about them. They’re quite egotistical.”

“Most have lost their pride. They couldn’t live if they still had it. Dignity does not aid survival.” Look at Narcissus, after all; he’d died first, withering on a chair of splendour, made to become a stain on what he’d once loved.

“No. No, it doesn’t.” Silence fell for a moment. Thetis was about to leave but she thought better of it. She would refuse to say she liked his company but she would be hard pressed to say she didn’t miss him when she went.

There was a reason she had not written his name on that grave.

“So, Poseidon?”

“He reminds me of the sea.”

“Yeah, guess that makes sense. He still seems quite into it, it seems. Went onto me for ages about how he could win the Olympics with ease. I’m not sure why he thought I’d care.”

“You may have a point about their egos.”

“Not you, though.”

“I gave up my dignity long before you were even dead.”

Another bout of silence.

“You should talk to him, you know. I’ll try not to listen.”

“I don’t think I have anything left to say. I understand now his feelings toward me. He didn’t want me.”

“But he loved you. You were his mother.”

“He loved you more.”

“There is a far stretch of different between love for a partner and love for a mother. He did love you.”

“I’m glad you think so.” She blinked, surprised to find tears in her eyes. She had not cried since the last of her people had been lost to a fisherman’s net.

“Just…talk to him. About anything. Like you talk to me. I’ll sing myself a song in my head, or well, my metaphorical head.”

So she did.

It was all rather inane. Yet she felt better for it. She felt better talking to the son she never really had but loved more than anything, in her own way. She would do anything to have him back, maybe do something differently this time.

Or maybe not.

She didn’t put thought into it, the thoughts were only too painful.

When she was done, she turned back to Patroclus’ presence. “Thank you.”

She could hear his smile when he said, “there’s nothing to thank. Just…next time you see Poseidon, tell him to come back, maybe bring a few of the others back. I haven’t had a party in three millennia.”

“I will. Maybe I’ll even come.”

“I’d like nothing better.”

After that, they went back to (pretending to) hate each other like nothing had happened.

~*~

“Have you heard about the War?” Athena said, clambering over Aphrodite’s back. Athena was now Alessia, a general in the Italian army, soon to ‘die’ in a fatal accident and move to the Allied side. She was thinking Russia but she would equally like to go to England. Aphrodite was a Bella (for the tenth time) and was modelling in America, though the war was pushing her towards becoming a show performer; with her looks, it would be easy.

“The one in Europe?” Patroclus asked, lounging against the tombstone. Some cult had given Zeus just enough power to materialise him, though he still couldn’t wander further than the 1o metres from Achilles resting site.

“Yes but it’s _everywhere_ now, it’s a World War! Again!” Alessia sounded far too excited, her war roots eternal. It had been worse since Ares died. It was like they had once split the bloodlust between them and now it was only her. It wasn’t sinister by any means but she certainly didn’t seem to mind about the death toll if it meant she could fight another battle. She could be considered a sociopath if not for the way she acted around Bella (like lovesick fools, that was, though neither would admit it).

“It’s stupid,” Apollo sighed. He no longer had the power of prophecy, not unless someone sacrificed a sheep to him in some reenactment ceremony and then he could maybe give you half a fractured sentence. He’d become sullen without it, made worse by everyone else’s love of Patroclus. He had killed him, after all, and for some reason that meant everyone else spited him.

But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here, would he?! So really, he’d done them a favour.

But Apollo was now Hernandez and living in Spain, doing some menial job at a cafe where he sometimes deemed to play the guitar in a corner and get a few tips.

“Why’s that?” Patroclus asked. He did care. He liked to keep up with things and he always cared about war. He’d lost the love of his life to one (and himself, though that seemed negligible at this point); he’d seen the way men had fallen to other men’s hands.

“They’ll all just die and then go back to how things normally are. It’s always the _same_.”

“Bet it’s a lot more boring when you can’t interfere,” Patroclus said pointedly but without spite. It had long since been time for spite.

“I think it is fair,” Bella said. “I have heard of the camps, the murder. It is psychotic.”

“Of course but that doesn’t make it any more interesting,” Hernandez complained.

“War is not made to be interesting, it is made for glory,” Zeus said. He was still the most powerful of all of them (bar Hades, of course). The rare chance someone (a cult, someone desperate, or just a reenactment) made an offering, it was often to him. He was the most remembered; the head of the Gods. He’d still had to do _something_ , though, and was a business tycoon in Japan under the name Constantine, an immigrant from Greece with a high class degree in Business Management. It came after he’d gotten bored over their teasing about his job in meteorology and had simply gotten up and moved from Germany without looking back.

Good thing, really, if he was going to take sides now.

It was a surprise, really, that this was the one thing they all agreed on. Whether they cared for the war or not, none of them seemed to want Germany to win. For their own reasons, of course, usually selfish, but reasons nonetheless.

(Predominantly, though, it seemed that they knew if Nazis took over the world, they definitely weren’t getting a sacrifice ever again).

Even Thetis, who cared little for people, sacrifices or wars, thought the Allies were in the right. Though maybe that was just an effort to agree with Patroclus. She had long since learnt that agreeing with Patroclus usually was the same as agreeing with her son. And even in death, she’d like to be on his side.

This was the twentieth year they’d met like this, sitting in a semi-circle around Achilles grave. They came ever year on the exact date, no matter where they came from. Always September, always the 21st, where the weather was cool enough in Turkey to bring respite but not cold. Thetis had arranged the first, they’d arranged the rest among themselves.

They were a dynamic group: loud, opinionated and brash. But over two decades, they had become a team, a stupid one at that. A team built on nostalgia for a time long gone, brought relentlessly together by both pity and wonder for a boy who could never move.

They’d offered, in 1933, the tenth anniversary of their meetings, to write his name on the gravestone. For a reason none quite understood, he’d said no, that he would wait just a little longer, sure that his love would still be there for him on the other side.

(Of course, Patroclus would tell no one that he did it to keep an eye on the gods, who both had a penchant for mischief and misery).

And now it was 1943 and a war was ravaging the world, which still didn’t explain when Constantine cut off the entire conversation with: “I think I can bring you back.”

“What?”

He was looking at Patroclus. Yes, definitely him, no one else. “I can bring you back.”

“No you can’t.”

“I think I can.”

“ _How_?”

“The war has brought back superstition. Desperation. There have been people funding religious organisations on a level I haven’t seen in millennia. I think I might just be given enough power to do it.”

“You would do that? Spend the power you got on me?” Patroclus could wish he sounded a little more trusting but the hesitancy was evident. He’d grown up in an age where it was common knowledge that the gods were cruel masters, playing with humans like their dolls. He may have grown to trust them like this but fallen gods were not the same as gods with power.

“I have little else to do with it. Summoning thunder isn’t that fun anymore and turning into a cow holds even less excitement.”

“You could always turn into a pig this time,” Patroclus said, you know, like an idiot.

Constantine just smirked. “Do you not want to be human?”

“Of course not!” He shouted. “I mean, I just, I can’t believe it. It’s been…so long.”

“There are no promises.”

“Of course not.”

“Oh my god, Pat’s gonna become real!” Bella screeched, her American twang unfortunately real (much to their common dismay).

“I’m looking forward to it,” Alessia added more sagely. Hernandez mustered a nod. Poseidon actually laughed. Thetis - Alice - just smiled.

~*~

It took another decade. Constantine carefully stored his power, careful not to use it on useless activities, until he had enough. The war had ended, though the repercussions had not. Rationing was ongoing, although the wartime depression had moved onto a more secure time. Not perfect but smiles were seen more often now. Even the soldiers, who had suffered greatly, were making their way forward in life, the GI Bill giving them opportunities they had previously never imagined.

It was September 21st, 1954, when they finally convened for the ceremony. Constantine stood at the head of the group, his form looming over the grave, making Patroclus almost feel like a child again. Constantine was a foreboding man, just as much as Zeus had been a foreboding god. His dark, olive skin was weathered with age yet it only served to make him look wiser and the thick grey hair and beard only added to the illusion. It didn’t help that he was physically large too, with broad shoulders and a thick waist, hands large enough to smother. Behind him, the rest of the gods almost looked meagre. Thetis ( _Alice_ ) stood on his right, her soulless eyes shaping into something akin to compassion, maybe hope, maybe irritation; even so, she looked perfect, her black hair tied into a tight bun as she rocked the new modern pantsuit with a surprisingly original flair. On Constantine’s left was Poseidon (Kai, he finally revealed, who’d been living in Hawaii, though he did like to go by his original name. The rest of them refused on principle; if they had to go by stupid modern names, so did he). His own black hair was slicked back like he was a movie star, his pinstripe suit baggy in a way that was fashionable instead of poor.

The other three only completed the image of a movie tableau. Bella was smiling, her pearly white teeth shining in the autumn sun, looking like an old-fashioned Marilyn Monroe. Beside her, Alessia looked like the war-mongering goddess she was, her brown hair slicked back like a man’s, in a matching suit to Kai’s but shades lighter to suit her darker skin.

Then there was Hernandez, who was obstinately holding out that this was a bad idea, despite having no clue anymore about the future and what the consequences of this could be. He looked more bedraggled than the rest of them, although in a clearly effortful way. He wasn’t going for city-slicker but rather a more stylish no-jacket look in a plain white, pristine shirt and cuffed trousers, far more suitable for the hot weather. Though apparently that didn’t seem to give health to his seemingly pallid complexion.

Patroclus stared at them, as if only just realising his inferior position. He’d made friends with these gods over decades, but he’d also worshipped them for almost as long and sat beneath them like this, he felt the overwhelming urge to pray.

“There is no assurance this will work. My power is strong but Hades is stronger. If he wishes to take you, he will. Either way, after this day, you will either be dead or back among the living.”

Patroclus nodding, his tongue about to say something witty but holding it back. For as much as age had made his humour dryer (and likely more pronounced), he was still a gentle soul. He did not speak out of turn, not in a situation as important as this.

Like a child, he reached out for Constantine’s hand, surprised when the leathered hand felt smooth against his own callouses.

It only took a few seconds.

The others muttered around him, as though surprised, and only then did he realised two things. The first, that this was never supposed to work (not that they hadn’t wanted it to but only that it was so far fetched that none of them had held out hope). The second, he was alive again.

Bella and Alissa threw themselves at him immediately, the others much calmer in their approach but no less kind. Alice placed a hand on her shoulder, suffering the touch of a mortal for the first time since her son, and attempted a smile.

She almost got there.

Constantine grinned, a mix of ego and pride smothering his expression, and placed a reaffirming hand on his bag, his own smile wide, whilst Kai ruffled his hair and muttered a very awkward, “good job, kiddo.” Hernandez said nothing until the expectant eyes of the group turned towards him. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it’s great that he’s back and all.” But as much as it was sarcastic, Hernandez was smiling too. “Guess we now have a worshiper back.”

The eyes of the gods lit up. None of them had seemed to have thought of the idea (no doubt because they hadn’t expected him to come out the other side of this) but seemed ecstatic at the prospect.

“You can pray to us!” Bella cried.

“Give us sacrifices,” Alissa added.

“We could have some power again,” Kai added more sagely.

“I-“ Patroclus stared at them, wide eyed. “Well, I will still treat you as gods if you wish, but I do hope that you will not treat me as inferior as return. I have enjoyed these decades as you friend.”

“Of _course_ , dummy,” Bella said. “Just get us a few gifts, okay?” She added with a wink.

“I would be honoured to worship _you_ if it meant I got some of my power back,” Alissa said, ever the least selfish; maybe it was womanhood, maybe it was the nature of being a warrior, but she had never held the same pride as the others, nor the vanity. She had once, Patroclus thought, but she had no shame in losing it, either. Or so it was said in the tales.

“It seems we might come to a mutually beneficial situation,” Constantine added, ever the businessman.

“But first!” Bella interrupted. “You have to choose a name. And somewhere to go.”

Patroclus didn’t deliberate; he’d had a decade to do so already. “Patrick. And Ireland. I’m sick of the heat. Now, which one of you wants a few prayers in return for getting me some form of identification?”

Of course, a little symbolically, it would be Alice who gave him his first start at a new life.


End file.
